


Crumbs

by kookaburrito



Category: Glee
Genre: First Time, Fluff and Angst, Love/Hate, M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2018-03-23 14:41:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3772066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kookaburrito/pseuds/kookaburrito
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I fell in love with Kurt slowly, discovering him gradually, with every bite. All the while searching inside myself for a little bit more courage, and romance, and intimacy.<br/>Kurt, on the other hand, was already in love with me, but he had to learn to let himself be savored, and stop fearing us being two instead of one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crumbs

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Briciole](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2032785) by [Epo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Epo/pseuds/Epo). 



> Thanks for my lovely beta, lyu-skywalker!

**Part I.**

I didn’t want to listen to him. The rush hour traffic was congested and furious, the tight grip of the scarf around my neck was suffocating me. I asked myself what we were doing in the car, as we could have met each other directly in some Starbucks near his office.

“Do you understand what I’m telling you, Blaine?” 

No, I didn’t understand. I didn’t want to understand. I proceeded to stare stubbornly in front of me, at the fragments of the street in between the traffic jam. I lost count of how long it was since we last moved. The light of the sun over the glass was hurting my eyes.

“Blaine.”

There was an old lady in the crowd on the edge of the street, carrying a lot of grocery bags. I observed how she came forward for a step, hesitating, carefully eyeing the slow pass of the cars, then retreat to the safety of the sidewalk.

“Please, Blaine… Don’t make it any harder than it already is.”

What was he saying? I didn’t know. I wasn’t listening to him. I was feeling breathless, like I was trapped in a cage.

“Fucking hell, can’t you go faster?” I snapped.

If it was even possible, the sigh that I heard him exhaling irritated me even more. I would have strangled him, without regrets.

“We are stuck, Blaine, no one is moving forward,” he explained with a slow and patient tone of voice, as if he was talking to a child.

 _Blaine. Blaine. Blaine._ I know my name, thank you very much. What need was there to constantly repeat it, as if I was an unruly kid who needed scolding?

For a while I massaged my temples with infinite frustration, and at that moment I decided that I couldn’t do it anymore. I’ve really had enough of it, and this car was too small for two people.

I unfastened my belt and unlocked the door of the car. I turned to him only when I was ready to step outside, right in the middle of the road. With that traffic it was improbable that someone would run me over. But still, I estimated that anything would be better than staying there.

“I’m gonna go,” I announced.

Simon was watching me with wide eyes. His open mouth made him look like a dead fish.

“Blai-”

I closed the door with force, enjoying the sharp snap of the impact. The flow of pedestrians immediately swallowed me in its anonymity.

*

There is something dishonest in being dumped when you are still trying to determine whether it’s worth fighting to keep a relationship alive. It’s like being startled in the act of deep meditation or finding yourself challenged by a demanding question of the teacher when you are still doing the first calculations in your mind.

How could he, Simon, precede me and take me so off guard?

Simon left me, and I wasn’t even ready to talk back, and I hadn’t even determined _how much_ and _if_ I had to hate him. I didn’t even know if I should ask him to try again, to give our story another chance in the name of all the good things that tied us, or admit that it was better this way and wish him to be just as happy without me.

But I was just there. Passively assisting the breakup of my own relationship. I was embarrassed of it: I felt the ineptitude that he long had criticized in me weigh me down in those few moments spent in the car. Maybe he actually had only wanted to test me, test my resolve to stay together - and what had I done? I had moved away, as if it didn’t concern me. I wonder what Simon thought of my reaction: did he despised me? Pity me? Had he already changed his mind and was looking for me? Was he relieved because I spared him of an exhausting and, in all likelihood, an embarrassing scene?

Maybe he didn’t care anymore.

How had I not realized that this was what he has been thinking about all those days?

I thought back to the last time we made love - his silent way of moving over me, his gaze in the darkness of the room, him squeezing my hips too tight when he was coming. He always left some signs. That last time he prepared breakfast for me, did he kiss my shoulder, after? I don’t remember.

And I was angry at myself for having forgotten the details, and at Simon, for having preceded me: he had asked himself questions and gave himself answers when I was still immersed in my doubts. And he did it without me noticing. Was it worth it? - I had wondered. And he had already established that no, it was not worth it. It was not enough. In all probability, _I_ was not enough.

In any case he should’ve never broken up with me inside the car. He knew that I cannot stand them. And he shoudn’t have left me because of those stupid, stupid, stupid reasons.

They were just a pile of bullshit. The usual things you say when you don’t know what to say. I was convinced.

After five years, I would have expected something more.

_Can’t you see that we don’t even make love anymore?_

_You take me for granted._

_We don’t even talk anymore._

_I'm not sure you've ever been in love with me._

_I need space and time, alone, to figure out who I am._

At one point I had stopped listening, anyway. I hated that car, the subdued tone with which Simon spoke in the deafening confusion of the car horns, the pinching of the wool scarf I was wearing - his Christmas gift. The scent of the seats upholstery mixed with the smell of that bag of take-out made me nauseous.

Stupid, stupid, stupid reasons.

*

“And now I’m here, trapped in a damn coffee shop, thinking about how I flushed five years of my life down the toilet, you see? And I have to get my stuff from the apartment.”

“Forget it, list-”

“Oh shit, I need to find _another_ apartment. Shit, shit, shit. Why the hell did I agree to live with that idiot? That asshole.” Suddenly, I realized that I was _very_ angry.

“Blaine, sweetie, forget about your things. Go there for just a minute, now that he’s at work, and take a bag, grab something and come here. Then I promise we will insult him for all you want.”

“Going there? Rachel, I don’t think so... I need to take care of so many things that my head is exploding just thinking of them.” I felt dizzy. “Shit, I have to tell my mom. And I don’t even want to imagine what will happen when _his_ mom finds out. I should change my phone number.”

The face of Simon’s mother - her narrow mouth painted with way too much lipstick, thin eyelashes, watery eyes, always full of suspicion - appeared in my thoughts. I could already see her sitting at the wooden table at the entrance of the house, with the receiver lifted and a river of words ready to tip over on Simon and me. If it was up to her, we would have already been married and adopted at least fifteen children.

“Blaine, first of all, his mother is not your business anymore and, if you don’t mind me saying that, he should’ve seen it coming.”

“Actually...”

“Second of all, today is Thursday. I think you can postpone everything until Monday and take some time just for you. What are you gonna do otherwise, lock yourself in a hotel room to cry for yourself?”

“Well-”

“Blaine Anderson, if it’s true that I’m your friend, be certain that I will never allow you to do such a thing. That’s why you should listen to me and do what I tell you. Your friends are waiting for you here.”

“I...”

“I will not take ‘no’ for an answer.”

I imagined her frowning. I knew she wouldn’t let it go, and maybe it was better this way.

“Rachel?”

“Yes, dear?”

“I-... Thank you. Really.”

*

Most New Yorkers rented a house over at the Hamptons in between spring and the first colds of autumn. Rachel, on the other hand, was one of the few who went there also during winter: maybe because she wasn’t really a New Yorker, maybe because she exalted at the thought of having the opportunity of taking her old reindeer sweaters out of the closet. What _was_ certain was that she had chosen it as their base to live the last weeks of her life as a pregnant woman, prey to anxiety and schizophrenic moods - not that anyone had expected she would be different.

I filled a bag with a few things: clothes, a small grey toiletry bag, some manuscripts that were yet to be read, the laptop for checking my e-mail. I don’t want to dwell too much on how it was, entering the apartment that Simon and I had shared for a long time. In fact, I remember feeling confused, clouded: I watched my hand insert the key into the lock, and it felt like that hand belonged to someone else; I filled my travel bag methodically and mechanically, without bothering to take other things. It was as if the walls were not mine anymore - and they actually have never belonged to me... The apartment was Simon’s, his parents’ graduation gift, I had been just a visitor, a parenthesis of presence in those rooms. I didn’t look at the objects thinking of _us_ , didn’t perceive our daily routine and life together; I just had a feeling of melancholy detachment. I looked briefly at my surroundings without actually seeing them and without recognizing anything as mine: I felt unhappy at the thought that I already couldn’t consider that place my home.

Later, I wondered if it would have been different if Simon had arrived at that moment. Would his presence have reminded me what it meant to love and share a part of myself with him? Would I have seen _us_ in the dirty breakfast cups that were still in the sink, in the crumpled cover of the sofa, in the collection of books that we shopped together for at the flea markets?

But Simon didn’t come. And anyway, it might not have changed anything.

*

Falling in love with him had been easy, because I loved to read, and he was a writer. Our meeting was casual and tender, during the presentation of a boring and overrated book.

He sat down next to me and began to comment to himself on the absurdities of the author's pompous announcements that the audience seemed eager to accept as if they were golden. I was giggling lightly, keeping my eyes down, as if it would be intrusive of me to let him understand that I was eavesdropping on his mutterings. Then he leaned over and asked me to go for a coffee. Just like that, very suddenly. He put his hand on my wrist, and I noticed that he had long fingers and bitten nails; I liked the way the edge of his shirt sleeve stroked his thin bones. There were actually three coffees - yes, in a row - and so we stayed talking for so long that when we parted, I wondered if I would ever see him again. Perhaps I made him dizzy with all that talking?

As for me, I was elated, obsessed by the shape of his eyes and with the way, he stroked his palm on the right side of his neck when he struggled to explain something. We said goodbye leaving our respective phone numbers to each other and I went back to the room I was renting, wondering if he had _felt_ what I did. In those months - after several years of turbulent and insignificant relationships, more or less casual - I was hungry for the desire of someone loving me. And I, after one night, was already in love with him - maybe by the time he told me he was writing his second novel. (The first had been a _flop_ , but he did not seem discouraged, and that had made me like him even more).

He called me first, and the next time we saw each other we didn’t only drink coffee. The silence while we were making love in his bed, in the dark, seemed full of promises.

*

The first thing I noticed upon arrival was Rachel's anxious expression, standing at the threshold, all wrapped up in a large cream-colored sweater. The second thing I noticed was the person behind her. The third thing I noticed was that Rachel’s expression and the unexpected presence were definitely linked.

And then I turned around.

Unfortunately my taxi had already left.

*

Not many people are capable of making me lose my patience (excluding anyone who breaks up with me in a stuffy car during rush hour traffic in New York). But if I had to think of someone - someone whose voice alone was causing me a nasty rash and an irrepressible urge to punch something - this without a doubt would be Kurt Hummel.

Kurt was one of Rachel’s best friends and, to make matters worse, the stepbrother of her husband Finn, which meant that I unfortunately ran into him quite regularly.

At first I found him to be quite nice. Gay, like me, a lover of art in all its forms, rather sarcastic. (Okay, yes - attractive. But with the passage of time and the increase in his unbearableness I decided to forget about this detail). There was discrete potential if not for a solid friendship, then at least for a peaceful acquaintance. And instead...

“Rachel,” I greeted her tensely.

She gave me a smile full of excuses. As if that was enough to forgive her. Behind her, Kurt was leaning against the doorframe, completely expressionless. He gave me a nod, the highest regard he could bestow upon me, then straightened up, turned his back to us and went inside the house.

“What were you thinking?” I hissed.

Rachel shrugged. “I didn’t know he would come, he talked to Finn, not me. He came back a couple of days ahead of schedule from Paris and has already written what he had to for the next issue, so he told me. Really, Blaine, I had no idea. Even though I really don’t understand this… feud ...of yours…”

“I wouldn’t call it a _feud_ , we just don’t like each other that much.”

“Okay, but I don’t see why.” She puffed, rubbing her hands on her arms to keep warm. Then she put her palm on her belly, the sweater hugging it tightly because of its roundness. I realized that that was a signal to me, that I had to give in.

“Okay,” I granted. “But I want him to leave me alone, it really isn't the best time ...”

*

It really wasn’t the best time. Definitely not. Everything that I wanted, that evening, was to drown in hot chocolate and confide in my friend, vent out my thoughts, my sadness and resentment. I had decided that only the next day would I allow myself to think what would it mean to live without Simon _in practice_ , start from scratch after the routine that we built together.

Staying in the same house as Kurt Hummel for me was like falling out of the frying pan and into the fire. I already imagined his snark, the stubborn snobbery with which he addressed me, his point of view of a man who had lived and seen the world - a far cry from my modest salary and the even more modest career - that I would have to put up with all the weekend. He probably already knew of my breakup with Simon and would take this opportunity to make matters worse. It was true that he didn’t like me, but Simon, he just despised: generally for Simon he reserved the attitude of poignant indifference, as if Simon were to thank him just for the honor of being in the same room or sit at his table, and that was the maximum of attention and trust that Kurt had for him.

He had been like this since their first meeting at dinner at Rachel’s house. Our first meeting, however, was not as terrible: we had met during the Christmas holidays, when we were all back in Ohio - Rachel and I from New York, where we had met at an audition for a supporting role in a semi-unknown musical of the lowest calibre, and him from London, where he worked for a few months writing for a popular fashion magazine.

We met and, well, I believe we even _liked_ each other. We talked, even joked. Sometimes I thought what it would be like to kiss him. I couldn’t really pinpoint when everything had changed - we had spent some holidays and evenings in each other’s company. Then, at some point, his attitude had changed abruptly: the coldness, the rigidity with which he avoided even approaching me, the comments about my lifestyle.

It irritated me just to see him, and soon it was clear to everyone that the fact that we were both gay, single and fans of music did not mean we were going to get along.

A year later I was with Simon, and now I can’t bear even to see him.

*

Kurt must’ve understood the hint, because he stayed away, at least that night. Apparently, he had dined early, before I arrived, so I could stay in the kitchen with Rachel and gorge myself on candy and self-pity without having to endure his look of condescension and disapproval. Finn was to arrive the next day.

“Do you think there’s someone else?” Was Rachel’s first question, after I explained to her more or less what had happened.

I gulped. I couldn’t say I didn’t think of it, at least for a moment. Not until we broke up, not when I felt suffocated in that car, but after ... After I had slammed the door and Simon had let me go without even calling me later. I never admitted to having waited for hours, phone in hand, ready to feel the slightest vibration even in the confusion of the street, while waiting for the subway and then the train. But I did. And I thought of it, yes. Is it not what happens? A relationship is put on trial, in the monotony of its rhythms we take each other for granted... and then you meet someone else and you want to start over. Sometimes I’ve wondered what it would mean for me to meet someone else. I found myself checking out boys and men on the subway or in the stores, wondering if there was anyone among them for me. Sometimes I daydreamed of encounters: a cute guy who handed me my fallen scarf, or discovering that we were reading the same book while sitting next to each other, or clashing at the door while leaving a building. I was dreaming with my eyes open and then felt vaguely ashamed of these thoughts. I wondered if I would ever be capable of cheating.

What is certain, is that in the confusion of my fantasies I had never once thought that the same could happen to Simon. Maybe that’s what it really means to take the other person for granted.

I had asked _afterwards_ , and asked myself again with Rachel watching me, attentive and concerned.

I went down the memory lane to look for the signs, without finding any. I asked myself if Simon was _that kind_ of person, and if I was the type who was able to live with a cheating partner without ever realizing it.

I asked myself, without knowing how to answer, if I thought that knowing there was someone else would have made me feel worse, better, or wouldn’t have made a difference.

“I don’t know,” I only managed to say. And, when shortly after Rachel asked me if I would ever get back together him, in case he reevaluated his decisions, I whispered back again: “I don’t know.”

**Part II.**

The next day did not begin in the best way. I woke up just after dawn, because of the light that filtered through the blinds of the window of my room.With a slurry mouth and sore eyelids I tried to find a glass of water on my nightstand, without much luck. At home, Simon and I always kept a full bottle of water beside the bed.

After a few minutes spent lying under the covers, I forced myself to get up: staying there, inactive, and only in the company of my thoughts did nothing but depress me.

And then, an inviting smell came from beyond the closed door of the guest room where I had spent the night, calling to me. I was surprised - it was really early. Who on earth had begun to cook at that hour? Pregnancy must have gone to Rachel’s head.

While slipping into a heavy sweatshirt and, hopping on one leg at a time, a pair of comfortable sweatpants, I made my way to the staircase which was leading downstairs to the kitchen and the living room; the smell intensified, a sweet aroma of something toasted that made my mouth water, a scent of freshly baked pastries just out of the oven, soft and inviting.

Suddenly I felt better. I love baked goods. I hoped it was something with chocolate.

I was wondering how to thank Rachel for such a surprise when I passed the entrance to the kitchen and found myself in front of Kurt.

Kurt, wrapped in an oversized apron with pink flowers, with red bows on the edges, was going through the contents of a drawer. He was disheveled, stained with flour and raw dough. A smudge of chocolate had streaked his cheek. Around him, there was an endless expanse of trays of sweets: cookies, muffins, pies, cakes, cupcakes... There was enough stuff to feed a regiment.

“What the hell...?!”

Rachel's house became a bakery that night, without me noticing?

Kurt suddenly realized that I was there and turned completely towards me - his face, flushed from the heat of the oven, at first became surprised, almost afraid - as if he had been caught in a forbidden and embarrassing act - then closed off into an expression of obvious hostility.

“Good morning,” he greeted me with a dry tone.

“Uhm. Good Morning.”

“If you need the kitchen I will clean it up,” he murmured, no longer looking at me. I watched the taut line of his shoulders as he busied himself in front of the sink, surrounded by desserts.

“No, no, I...” I took a step back, feeling uncomfortable. I felt a strange sense of having just invaded his personal space. Of observing something that I had not been allowed to.

I served myself a cup of coffee and then, murmuring some excuse, walked away to get back to my room, and decided to work at least for a little bit on those manuscripts that waited for me in the bag, leaving him surrounded by his full trays and pans in need of washing up. He did not bother to look at me or give me any of his attention.

When later that morning Rachel woke up and came to call on me, I got confirmation that I had seen something that had to do just with Kurt and Kurt only. Rachel frowned at the news of his culinary marathon night. She stood for a moment in silence, reflecting, then explained to me: “Yeah, well ... it's not unusual. But... maybe something happened... You see, Kurt cooks in this way only when he is particularly nervous or upset. Once, before an important job interview, he prepared two hundred omlettes.” She shrugged. “I guess, if it's something important, we'll find out.”

I only had a few moments to wonder why Kurt would be nervous or upset before Rachel began her usual chatter: apparently, being pregnant meant having an endless amount of details to share.

*

I saw Kurt again at lunch. By then, Finn had arrived and I had spent a bit of time with him. Between work, Finn, and thinking about Simon I had almost forgotten the scene I witnessed that morning. But it was impossible not to remember it when I discovered that we were about to have a sugary, chocolate-based lunch.

“What the-?” I snapped when I saw the table covered with colorful napkins, paper plates with decorative stars and endless trays of sweets. It looked like the buffet of a birthday party for children, and not a lunch for adults.

Rachel trappled me over with excitement. “Don’t you think it’s a great idea?” Of course, it was obvious that it was her idea.

Finn was quite enthusiastic about it, even though he had seemed a bit perplexed: “I was thinking more about a hamburger or a sandwich but muffins aren’t such a bad idea.”

As for me, after the first bite of a chocolate cupcake elegantly distributed on a tall glass, I decided that I could live and die eating those sweets. I changed my mind when I remembered that “Kurt’s sweets” would also contain, well, Kurt.

The latter watched us sitting at the table, his lips stretched into a smile with a tired expression. His plate remained untouched and I didn’t see him try anything.

Maybe the truth was that it was all a plan to poison us?

I was eyeing a cookie suspiciously, when Finn interrupted my musings. “So what will you do now, Blaine?”

“Huh?” I looked up, surprised.

He shrugged. “Well, uhm, now that you're... single. And homeless.”

I lowered the cookie onto the plate. Suddenly I was not that hungry. “I-” I swallowed, trying to muster some thought.

What the heck was I going to do?

I caught a glimpse of the look of reprimand that Rachel shot to Finn. Kurt, on the other hand, was staring openly at me and it made me very uncomfortable: I did not want to discuss my problems in front of him. Although, I was still fortunate enough not to have had the blessing of hearing him perform in the show of his own sarcasm by that point.

“I guess I'll be fine,” I finally replied.

“He cheated on you, right, dude?”

He, too, with this story? Why were they all set on this cheating thing?

“I don’t know, it doesn’t matter,” I said grimly.

“But-”

“Finn,” Rachel intervened with warning tone.

He looked at her for a moment, then frowned, frustrated. I knew he was only trying to be a friend.

“There were-- Yes, there were... problems. I think it was inevitable that we would break up at some point.” It was the first time I said it out loud, I realized. It hadn’t proven to be as difficult as I thought it would be.

“Every couple has their own problems, this doesn’t mean that they should give up.” Rachel put her hand on mine. It was warm, soft, comforting.

“I know,” I sighed. “But not all couples choose not to give up.”

“Maybe you're the one who cheated. I wouldn’t be surprised.”

I almost jumped up. In those few minutes I had hoped to be able to forget his presence and his ability to irritate me.

I turned and stared at him in anger. "What the hell do you know what I do or don’t do, how dare you, you arrogant little shit--"

“Ok, ok, ok,” said Finn lifting his hands as if to divide us. “Everyone, stop.”

“He started it,” I said stupidly. Indeed, Kurt gave me a completely condescending smile.

“Let’s watch our tongues and pretend that this is a discussion between adults, ok?” None of us gave any sign of accepting it. Finn decided to wait for a moment and went back to talk to me, fueled by curiosity. “So? Did you cheat or not?”

I stared at him in disbelief.

Cheating must be one of their obsessions.

“No, Finn! How can you think that? I would never do such a thing.” I realized now that Kurt was watching me, attentive. “Although I do not think I lov- I mean, even though there were problems, even though I had doubts, I... no, I would never do such a thing.” I spent five years of my life with Simon. Five. I closed my eyes for a moment. Just a moment, just in time to calm down, catch my breath. I had not cried yet, I couldn’t let it happen in that moment. When I opened them, I discovered that Kurt had bowed his head and, silent, was toying with the ruffled edge of the paper towel. His expression was thoughtful. “I would never do that,” I repeated, even if there was no need for it.

Rachel bent down to hug me while Finn filled my plate with new treats.

*

Once Kurt called me _a little whore_.

Well yes. Someone who never swears called me a whore.

It happened during a joint vacation (me, him, Rachel and Finn), which, I think, was our last attempt at peaceful co-existence, before I met Simon. It was during a rather lively discussion – I don’t even remember the argument. Maybe his fashion sense? Who had finished the coffee? Hogging the remote control?

I just know that at some point I said something that made Kurt especially annoyed. And then there he was... flushed, quivering with rage, his fists clenched. It was really rare for him to lose control.

 _“What do you think you understand, you stupid little whore...”_ he had snapped.

I think that at once he realized that he had exaggerated, because he raised a hand to cover his mouth, eyes wide open, speechless because of his own words. Just as speechless as I was and everyone around us.

Rachel tried to mediate, and the discussion suddenly stopped. I went into an offended silence, shocked. I didn’t even reply to his insult.

But afterwards that word kept repeating itself among my thoughts. I thought about it and I felt ashamed, I burned with humiliation, as if the insult had laid bare not only the real way in which Kurt - and the world - looked at me, but also the way in which I thought about myself.

I felt hurt, but at first, for some time, angry. How did he dare, I thought, that frigid stiff pole, to insult me like that? Had he ever been with someone, at all?

I did not remember ever having seen him in the company of someone or have even heard of some of his crushes, romantic history, relationships, one night stands... Anything. It was as if Kurt’s love and sex life were wrapped in a total aura of mystery: It was indeed hard to even imagine how anyone could approach him in that sense.

Would he ever let anyone see him... not composed? Naked, free of those billions of layers of clothes in which he wrapped himself? Sweaty and crumpled after sex? Weak, distressed, embarrassed? 

I doubted it.

Kurt Hummel represented, for me, the antithesis of the idea of intimacy and trust between two people. And I knew that he despised my lifestyle, my easy, short relations – often just long enough to exchange names - which I had been living. Just as I was laughing at his monastic life.

But that ‘ _whore_ ’... the way it came out of his mouth, an unexpected vulgarity that became particularly offensive. I perceived squallor. Little value.

It was at that time that, for the first time, I felt an incredible lack, a nostalgic longing for something I had never experienced, that I didn’t have and didn’t even know where to look for. It took a few months to recognize it as a need for love and approval.

It wasn’t long after that that I met Simon.

*

Reestablishing my life after Simon meant not only finding a new place to live, not just packing up my belongings and deciding whether the television was his and the microwave was mine, but also reviewing the way I had imagined my life would be.

In those years I had identified priorities, I was seeing myself in the future, part of a family, next to a responsible partner. I thought about how my work would allow me to be with our children.

Now... everything had disappeared. A few minutes inside a car and I could not even imagine myself a few years down the road.

I had feared and avoided loneliness all my life – surrounding myself with friends, lovers, creating a family for myself - and now I found myself totally caught off guard.

It was one-thirty at night, and Simon had not called... this was a message that was clearer than any words.

For about two hours I’ve been sitting on the couch in the living room, with all the lights off except for a small bedside lamp across the room, thinking about everything I had lost. On the table in front of me there was a full bottle of vodka and a heavy glass, filled. I had not been drinking, actually. It was years since I had rid myself of that habit and now wouldn’t indulge in anything more than a beer when I went out with some colleagues - Simon was a teetotaler and the smell and the taste of alcohol in kisses bothered him.

For the first time I wondered if he really was with someone else.

The thought made me a little nauseous. I had eaten too many sweets.

“Can I drink that?”

It was Kurt. I lifted my head up, surprised. He was standing in the open doorway. In the dark I could not fully distinguish his expression.

I looked where he pointed. “Uh? Yes, yes, of course.” I ran a hand through my hair. “All yours.”

He walked over and I noticed he was wearing his pajamas. A pair of soft pants and a simple long-sleeved shirt. I had never seen him dressed in something so _relaxed_.

He took a glass, filled it. I expected him to go. Instead he stood for a moment staring straight ahead, slowly sipping. Finally he sat down on the couch next to me, without asking for my permission.

“You haven’t talked a lot tonight,” he muttered without looking.

I looked for some trace of sarcasm in his voice, not finding any. I thought of what to answer, what to say to make him go away. It would have been enough to tell him to mind his own damn business. But I was too tired. The phone on the table had not lit once.

I scanned his profile and I realized that I also feared the loneliness in those hours.

“I did not have much to say.” I shrugged. “I left the spotlight to Rachel.”

A smile curled at the corners of his mouth. I wondered if it was the first time that a smile was reserved for something I said.

“She indeed doesn’t mind if the spotlight is all hers.”

He turned around and realized that I was staring at him. “What are you doing staying up alone at this hour to...” He pointed at the bottle. “Not drink?”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

He pursed his lips and nodded slowly, as if he wanted to say something but didn’t know how to do it. He hesitated just before speaking again. “The single life is not so terrible, you know?”

I kept looking at him and I hated myself for that. The shape of his body seemed soft beneath the light fabric of the pajamas, the skin of his face tender and flushed under the soft light of the far away lamp. I despised myself for my thoughts.

“And you're the top expert in that, right?”

I regretted saying it immediately - even before his expression changed from surprised, embarrassed, to hurt. I was not used to his vulnerability. I realized that he was relaxed, that he had not expected having to deal with my jokes or an argument.

“I’m not-”

“I’m sorry,” I puffed. I ran my hands over my face, rubbing my forehead and cheeks with my fingers. At least that way I could stop staring. “I’m sorry.”

I had never apologized, nor has he to me.

Maybe because of that he didn’t reply, and didn’t go away. We were silent for long minutes, me, with my face hidden in my hands, breathing the aroma of the sweets that he had cooked on my own skin, and he sat, perhaps intent on drinking his vodka. Maybe. I didn’t know, I wasn’t interested. In that moment, everything seemed to have fallen to pieces. If I had the glass in my hand it would have definitely fallen - I didn’t manage to grip tightly at anything in my life. Neither my skills for singing, nor the expectations of my father for a prestigious job, nor Simon.

My life was so full of shit I was drowning in it.

I didn’t notice that he stood up. That’s why I was surprised when he broke the silence and, lifting my head, I found himself in front of me.

“Do you want to bake some muffins?” he asked me.

*****

I had not been wrong in suspecting that Kurt had invited me to take part in something of his _own_ , something personal. I stood awkwardly beside the table for long minutes, as I watched him bustling about in the kitchen, preparing the ingredients and tools.

"Oranges and chocolate?" he asked briefly. I nodded, without saying anything, but he didn’t look at me. He wasn’t particularly interested in my honest opinion. He continued to move between the pantry and the counter, stacking bowls and pulling out bags. I stared at him and wondered what I was doing there.

“Maybe...” I tried. “Yes, well, it's better that I...”

I hated the way he could always make me feel awkward. Even now, there I was, in front of him, embarrassed, ignored. Yet it was Kurt who invited me.

“I’m gonna go,” I snapped decisively.

Only then did he lift his head, making me worthy of some excerpt of his precious attention. His expression was amazed; he frowned defensively. “As you wish.”

“I do not think that- I mean, it's obvious that you asked me just out of kindness, and you actually don’t want to-”

“I do not ask _out of kindness_ ,” he interrupted with a dry tone of voice. He seemed angry, and that awareness only served to further irritate me: what right had he, to let me see a glimmer of something other than his always cold and distant attitude, and then, again, hide it from me without giving me a reason?

I noticed that my hands were shaking, and at the bottom of my throat there was a litany of shouts and accusations. I was going to burst, and exaggerate. That nervousness that was hatching inside of me for days - or perhaps even weeks - was about to come to the surface. I knew that afterwards I would feel exhausted and full of shame. It was always this way with me, since I was a kid.

I had to calm myself down. I breathed deeply, closing my eyes. A breath, the air that swelled my tight chest. I was exhaling and it felt like my anger was crumbling. Two breaths, and my shoulders seemed softer. Three breaths. Four breaths. I had to calm myself down, it was not worth it.

When I spoke, my voice was low and calm even to my own ears. “Okay,” I whispered again without opening the eyelids. “I'd like to stay.” I said, but I wasn’t sure if it was true. But I knew I didn’t want to leave - I didn’t want to be alone tonight. “If you... if you don’t mind, I mean.’

I listened to the silence for a long moment, before opening my eyes. Kurt was looking at me.

“I don’t mind,” he finally breathed out. “It 's just that... I’m sorry, I'm not used to sharing this with someone and... I'm not used to having you around.”

“If you  want I-”

“I thought you needed it... and I don’t know, it seemed like a good idea.” I saw him moving his hand quickly, just by turning a wrist, and I recognized the gesture as something familiar, belonging to him. “At least at the moment,” he added more softly.

He was surrounded by pots, aluminium bowls, bags of flour and colorful decorations. I caught sight of the blue sugar that he used to draw little hearts on the biscuit I had eaten that day. Perhaps it was the reminder of the softness of those bites, the tenderness of those colors that softened something inside of me. “It seems like a good idea to me too.”

Kurt nodded - under the warm light of the kitchen, his face seemed slightly flushed.

“You have to explain how to do it, though. I am a disaster in the kitchen.”

This time his lips twitched into a small smile. “I had no doubt...”

While telling me how to do it, what to do, as he gave me orders imperiously and teased me for my failures, I found myself forgetting all thoughts that tormented me before. I mixed a paste, observing drops of dark chocolate blend with its softness. I cut the oranges into segments and pieces, letting my hands move automatically as I listened to Kurt sing some old song, some hit from our adolescence.

As I joined him - quietly, not to wake Rachel and Finn - I found that, within me, there was no longer a single crumb of nervousness.

*

Spending time with Kurt turned out to be different from what I imagined it to be; when it wasn’t directed at me and dipped in cruelty, his irony amused me, and engaged me. He was attentive to detail in a way that enchanted me – his long fingers moved quickly, the absurd apron that he was wearing suddenly seemed perfect on him.

I found myself staring at him more openly than I should’ve, and blushing, embarrassed, when I met his eyes.

“I like oranges and chocolate.” I said the first thing that came to my mind and hurried to grab one of the muffins straight from the oven. When I felt the intense burning on my fingers and had to bite my lip not to let out a shriek that would surely wake Finn and Rachel, I found that it was not at all a good idea.

“You’re a mess,” Kurt sighed. While I was carrying my fingers to my mouth, instinctively, to seek relief, he approached me and grabbed me by the elbow. “Come on, you klutz.”

He led me to the sink and then wrapped one hand around my wrist, forcing me to expose the burn to the cool running water. I felt better immediately.

“Mmm,” he muttered, staring at my reddened fingers.

And then I stopped looking at them: I was looking at him. He was closer to me than he had ever been. He was touching me, I realized, when he stroked my skin with his fingertips. I wasn’t sure he had ever touched me before.

“I noticed you checking your phone,” he began suddenly.

“Huh?” For a moment I was confused; not understanding immediately what he meant.

“I mean, well, it seems to me that... You’re waiting for a call.” He lifted his face, his eyes clear. He was so close. I could see every feature of his face.

“I- well-” I tried to gather my thoughts. And I understood what he meant. “Ah. Yes. The phone. I didn’t think it was so obvious.”

He shrugged. “I have noticed.”

“Maybe I should stop doing it. I don’t think he’ll call.”

He closed the tap, but my hand remained in his. He continued staring at our hands, as if lost in thought.

“Do you _want_ him to call you?”

Like I haden’t been asking myself this question.

“I don’t know,” I admitted sincerely. “Everything is so confusing. I miss him, but it’s not unbearable. There were things that weren’t going well, but ... what if we are giving up too soon? I don’t know what it means, to end a relationship, I don’t know how it works, how to tell if it’s time to rip the band-aid off, even if it is painful, or if you we’re too lazy to try and make things better.”

He seemed to reflect upon my words. Then he nodded. “Yes, I think I understand what you mean.”

He seemed sad. Even more sad than me, in that moment - although we were talking about Simon.

“Have you ever been in love?” The question escaped my lips, almost without my noticing. When I saw the surprise in his expression, the stiffening in his shoulders, I wished to take the question back. Instead he replied,his voice a low murmur. “In love...” He chuckled to himself as if chasing some thoughts. “When I was a kid I dreamed so much about love, you know?”

“Prince Charming on a white horse to sweep you away?”

He smiled. “Something like that... Add to that making love in a field of flowers, going dancing hand in hand, seeing romantic movies together, and so on. Instead everything turned out very differently. And... I don’t know. Yes, once I think I've been in love.”

“And what happened?”

He frowned, as if he was lost in a thought of his. “That person turned out to be different from what I had thought.” He puffed out. “And I don’t think they would ever be interested in me, even though I didn’t give them a chance.”

 _‘That’s all?’_ I had thought, but fortunately I refrained from asking him. We were twenty-seven years old. In his past there was only a brief love affair, which ended in disappointment?

“I know what you're thinking.” His voice interrupted my thoughts.

“Unless you're telepathic, no, you don’t.” I chuckled, because he was smiling. He seemed a bit less sad.

He sighed. “I know what you're thinking because everybody thinks it, even if no one ever says anything in front of me. Even Rachel stopped, after a while.”

Then I asked him. “There is no one? I've never heard of anyon- I mean, you seem to always be single.” A thought caught me, suddenly. “Unless... unless you only have one-night encounters or something. Or that there is a husband hidden in your basement.”

Kurt seemed to realize only then that he was still holding my hand. He released it and stepped back a little, leaning against the edge of the kitchen counter.

“If I were to reveal who's hiding in my basement I would have to kill you.” He smiled, fiddling with a ribbon of his apron. “Not that any of this is your business,” he pointed out. “But I don’t do one-night stands. That's not really my thing, at all.” He said it with obvious disapproval. I thought back to my university life \- how many nights have there been? And as many people. I wonder what he, Kurt, thought of me back then. _Little whore_. So he told me. I banished the thought: I realized that my chest was still tightening painfully because of his disdain.

“Do you still dream of romance?”

He nodded. “Always, I’m incurable. Terminal stages.” Then he shook his head. “Too bad that there is little room for romance in my life. I’m always traveling and... meeting someone, the right someone, turned out to be more difficult than I had thought.” He walked away from the shelf and began to gather around the pans which were yet to be put in the oven. I understood that he wanted to end the conversation. “But I'm surrounded by fascinating models, which I do not mind.”

His laughter seemed forced.

_Has he ever been with anyone?_

I wanted to ask him, but I didn’t.

“In other words, you have a nice view,” I added, joining his game.

I approached him to help him.

_How many people have you turned away?_

I thought he was beautiful. And sweet. And dismissive. And unapproachable.

And that I should absolutely stop having those thoughts.

*

That day I was more silent than ever. Even Kurt seemed lost in his thoughts. Immediately after lunch he announced that he had to work and disappeared into his room.

Rachel and Finn seemed to have eyes only for themselves, so they didn’t pay any particular attention to us. When they entered ‘lovebirds mode’ it was hard to even be in the same room with them.

I got out, and took a walk on the beach. The cold was piercing and humid and I hoped that it would clear my mind.

I had thought a lot about Simon that day. There was salad for lunch and I had dressed it with lemon: it was a habit that he had passed on to me, and I remembered it at the first bite. The acidity of the citrus, the smooth tenderness of the vegetables suddenly seemed unbearable to me, even disgusting.

How many things would remind me of him? How tight had we woven our habits together, so that just the turning of the cap of the toothpaste would have reminded me of him, of our life?

I was wearing the sweater that we had bought together. It was soft and, according to Simon, particularly suited me. Once we made love while I was wearing it. He said he loved me as he pressed his fingers against the skin of my thighs and grabbed handfuls of wooly fabric.

I stopped counting the hours that passed since Simon had left me. He still hadn’t called me; I had already realized that he wouldn’t do it anymore. No sign of life even from his mother or mine or any of our friends – he still hadn’t revealed ‘the news’. I wondered if there was already someone else, perhaps within the walls of our house. ( _His_ , I corrected myself in my mind.)

It was hard to think of Simon. It was not easy to think of Kurt either, but it was less painful: I was confused by the sudden lull in our relationship, I was confused by the attraction I felt for him.

When we were in the same room I found myself staring at him more than was appropriate and allowed. I kept asking myself questions about him, surprised at how little I knew about him. I wanted to discover more. I wanted to be closer to him. I wanted to kiss him and find out how sex with him would feel. Whether it would make me forget everything. Whether it would give me a decisive break from my past.

Whether it would make Simon feel bad, if he were ever to find out. 

As I stared at the dark sea under the gray winter sun, I wondered when my life would finally get back into shape.

*

That night, Rachel and Finn took possession of the living room and the sofa. They wanted to see some movies and both Kurt and I realized immediately that we should leave them alone.

I don’t remember clearly who suggested it first. If I were to ask Kurt, he would say it was definitely my idea.

We ended up in my room, on my bed. With two cups of hot chocolate, watching a movie - a romantic comedy - on the screen of his laptop.

I couldn’t stop wanting him. Having him next to me made me lose my mind. Our sides were very close, so much that I felt them burning me like the chocolate that I drank in large gulps, too fast. I filled my mouth quickly in fear of what I could say.

He was a few inches away from me, and yet unapproachable.

_But I don’t do one-night stands._

Hell, I had come to wonder if he _at least_ had sex.

I wanted him. So much that I didn’t even have a clue about what was happening in the movie we were seeing.

I inhaled his scent. I turned around just a bit to watch his lips on the edge of the cup, his slender fingers, his Adam's apple that moved as he swallowed.

“So then he left without reading her message?” He asked.

I didn’t understand at all what he was talking about. “Huh?” I asked, stupidly.

He turned to me. Our faces were very close again, as the night before. But I was aware of what he would read in my expression. I wouldn’t even know how to hide it.

He frowned, seemed to be distraught. “Blaine, I don’t think that-”

“No, no, there’s no doubt. You're right,” I stammered, bringing myself to look at the screen.

I stared at it for long minutes, unable to focus on the images before me. Kurt remained silent. I felt razor-sharp tension between us. Until he moved, grabbing with decision the cup in my hands and placing it on his bedside table. He lowered the screen in an abrupt and nervous gesture. Here, I had ruined it - now everything would turn back to how it was. I continued to hold my gaze straight ahead. Now he would leave, refusing me in every way possible.

And then, instead…

His hands were on my cheeks, and even before I understood what was happening, he whispered, “Ok, ok,” against my lips and kissed me.

His mouth was warm, he tasted of chocolate. He was trembling and indecisive and took me by surprise. As soon as I realized what was happening I responded with firmness, put my hands on his hips and inhaled deeply, again, his scent. It was all around me, on me.

I put my fingers under the edge of his sweater and stroked the soft skin above the waistband of his pants. He shivered.

“You're beautiful,” I murmured, moving my mouth to kiss his neck. The Adam's apple that I was watching before.

“I want you,” he said, his voice fragile and embarrassed.

_But I don’t do one-night stands._

I remembered, and I was confused, excited, nervous, anxious. I didn’t know what it meant. I thought vaguely of Simon. I felt guilty, even though I shouldn’t have. Simon was the only one for years. I was excited and stunned while kissing someone else.

That night, Kurt and I had sex for the first time. Sex, not love. I was not in love with him, not yet. But yes, I wanted it, with an intensity that scared me.

It was awkward and tentative, like any first time between two people. It was awkward, even more so because it was Kurt’s first time. I found out because of his inexperienced gestures, because of his embarrassed ‘sorry’s when he accidentally scratched me or didn’t know how and where to touch me or how to move. I kissed him at every word of discomfort that left his mouth.

It was awkward and intense, like it had never been before for me. The sweetness of Kurt was intoxicating, his body was gorgeous. I could never forget the way we were reaching for each other under the covers over and over again, as if we couldn’t get enough.

He asked me to go slow, and I was careful. I was happy. I couldn’t stop touching him, couldn’t stop discovering him.

I wondered vaguely how I could live without all that. Maybe I asked him, too, in those senseless murmurs that I continued to whisper against his skin.

Afterwards, I fell asleep immediately. I slipped into my dreams almost without realizing it, exhausted from those days.

When I woke up, Kurt was no longer in my arms and on my phone there was a message from Simon.

**Part III.**

Waking up during the night searching for the vivid images in your own fraying dreams. Saying _I love you_ and wondering to yourself _do I love you really_?. Counting the dark circles in the cups of coffee left to cool during endless discussions. Decorating the Christmas tree together, exchanging gifts. Cooking. Savoring the memory of those soft and sweet bites. Feeling guilty. Screaming unpleasantries at each other. Hugging. Trying to make love again. Silencing the sex that you have had with someone else. Thinking of him.

*

I didn’t believe it would be easy to get back together with Simon, and yet it was the easiest thing. Easier than making a new decision again, than chasing an uncertainty that remained in my arms for too short a time for it to be considered anything more than a consolation.

It had been so easy – “I didn’t want to break up with you, I love you, Blaine, I just wanted… you not to take me  and our relationship for granted”, Simon had said; and so complicated: being in an apartment that I had already stopped considering mine, kisses I had already begun to forget, did nothing but cement my doubts.

“Is there something wrong?” Simon asked. He looked at me with worried eyes – unaware, yet afraid. I could not meet his gaze.

“No, love. Everything's fine now,” I replied, kissing him.

I watched him, our things mixed in the apartment, and I was wondering how it could have been something after all: before Simon there were so many guys, men, dating. Names remembered, forgotten, never known.

And then there was Simon and his quiet and tender manner of loving me, his fingers were writing stories on paper and on my skin, as he kissed a point on my collarbone that only he seemed to know how much it made me shiver.

And now...

There were my doubts. Our _I love you_ s. Avoiding eyes. The too frequent lovemaking in the dark.

And there was Kurt, of course.

Kurt was the scent of sweets that I remembered every morning when I woke up, the embrace which I was looking for instinctively in my sleep.

‘It’s a damn stupid fantasy,’ I kept telling myself.

But it still haunted me, slowly but tenaciously taking hold of my life.

I came home from that weekend in the Hamptons distraught by the events of those few days and by Simon - who wanted me, who loved me, when I had ceased to think of it as possible.

Kurt had become a cross between an affair that one shouldn’t speak of and the adventure of one night, gone with the light of day. I thought about it as little as possible, fearing that Simon could read something in my eyes.

But then, the visions of his body, the emotions behind his sweetness awakened inside of me at the most unexpected times.

Here he is, in the softness of a new sweater. Or in the colors of a shop’s window full of sweets. In the love scene of a film in black and white.

 _I want you_ , he had said that night.

And I hadn’t yet stopped desiring him. At first occasionally, confusedly.

Then every minute, every moment, in every gesture, in every crumb of my life.

*

Simon told me it was over, this time permanently, because I was too much of a coward to say it myself.

I stared at his wet eyes, at his clenched fists, and I felt shame and relief. I didn’t even pretend that I needed explanations or that it was not my fault.

“I’m sorry,” I muttered.

*

Big changes have always scared me. Irrationally, though, because then always I find myself slipping into a new life, hectic and fullfilled.

New house. Lost friends. Friends rediscovered. Forgetting. Forgiving. Family. Each of these things is modeled around me with an unexpected grace - or I am around them, perhaps.

There were days when I again was wondering if I had been wrong, if my giving up was just because of my cowardice and immaturity- like those couples who after facing the problems of an ever-after together choose to separate. But those days were becoming fewer and further between and increasingly relegated to the melancholy of the evenings of exhaustion. During other evenings, there was the constant thought of a memory, and hope.

Everything became easier and clearer, with the passage of time. One week, two, a month. I kept thinking about that night.

It was not enough. I wanted him, before. Now I wanted to try to love him.

It was during the second month that I sent the first bouquet of flowers to Kurt.

*

It was the fourth bouquet of flowers - delicate and very fragrant peonies - and nearly three months after my breakup with Simon, when he finally replied to my messages.

He handed the delivery boy from the flower shop a simple note, written in linear handwriting on a white card.

_Was that horror that you drew on your card supposed to be a white horse?_

_Anyway, I don’t know what you're doing sending me all these flowers and I don’t want to know. And I'd be crazy to tell you that on Saturday I will be there with Rachel and Finn for the baby shower. I'd be mad, because I definitely don’t want to see you. K._

*

“I’ve hated you.”

This was the first thing that Kurt told me when we were alone, that Saturday. I still had not stopped staring at him, since I saw him at the front door of my house. When Rachel had complained that Finn had forgotten to buy wine – “Do you not want to raise a toast for the birth of your son?!” - I took the opportunity immediately, and offered to go buy it. “Kurt will keep me company,” I said aloud.

Now he was proclaiming his hatred and it was exactly what I had expected he would do.

“I know.”

“Okay. Because I hated you, very much.”

“I'm no longer with Simon,” I puffed out, stupidly. As if it could be enough.

“I know,” he imitated me.

He was walking fast, I couldn’t see his face. I snapped. “Can you stop for a second, please? I'm trying to talk to you.” I grabbed him by the elbow, forcing him to turn around: he kept his face down and his expression closed-off.

“Kurt ... I-”

“There's nothing to say.”

He was not going to make things easy. With him, everything was complicated.

“Yes, there is. And you shouldn’t have left that morning.”

He finally looked up, raising an eyebrow. “Really?” He asked. “And what would’ve changed, if I stayed? And above all, why should I have stayed?”

“I-”

“I never said that I like you, Anderson. Quite the contrary.” His tone was firm, detached. And I didn’t believe him even a little - I didn’t want to believe him.

“You made love to me.”

His expression wavered. “I wouldn’t call it that.”

“I was wrong, I know.” I admitted, ignoring what he had just said. “It took me a while to understand it, to understand you, but I needed time... to... get my life back together. I was already confused and I can assure you that you've confused me quite a lot too.”

I was exposing myself, perhaps a bit too much, and I kept wondering when and how he would hurt me, just how wrong I was. Maybe I was confusing all his signals.

But…

But he hasn’t run away yet, he was listing to me. And the first time he made love, it was with me.

“We made love,” I murmured again and I hoped that he wouldn’t pick up on the fact that I was feeling ready to beg him to do it again. That I was begging him to tell him that it was actually true, that we had _really_ made love.

“It’s not enough, Blaine.” He sighed, his face was flushed. At least he didn’t deny it.

“I know, but I… can’t stop thinking about it.”

“Is this what they meant, those flowers, that you want to do it again? After such a long time?”

“I needed to fix things... It is not that I want to do it again. I mean, yes, of course I want it,” I was almost babbling. “But I don’t want just that. I wish we could try. You and me,” I specified, although there was no need.

He pursed his lips, closed his eyes for a moment, breathing deeply. “You got back together with your ex, after that.”

“I was wrong, it was a mistake. I only hurt everyone involved... I was confused.”

He lifted his eyelids. “Blaine, I wasn’t, I wasn’t confused.” He stared at me openly. “Do you understand this?”

I nodded and gathered a little bit more hope. “I didn’t understand what it meant... what had happened.”

“Do you understand now?”

I decided to answer him honestly - at least I owed him that much. “I know it was important. I want to become something important. And I want to understand what it means, what it might mean in regards to my life.”

He let out a soundless laugh, running a hand through his hair. “This is quite a challenge, huh.”

“Are you afraid?”

He sighed. “I'm afraid of the crumbs.”

“The crumbs?”

“Yes. Of… watching you from a distance, catching the remains, to be the second choice. Centuries ago I hated you for not noticing me, the fact that I was in love with you, and of wanting a thousand others without any importance, and then wanting Simon. When I hate you it's easier to pretend that I don’t want you.”

_“Yes, once I think I’ve been in love.”_

_“And what happened?”_

_“That person turned out to be different from what I had thought.” He puffed out. “And I don’t think they would ever be interested in me, even though I didn’t give them a chance.”_

I swallowed, because it was much more than what I had expected, that I could ever expect.

I stepped forward, approaching him. He didn’t step away. “Can I kiss you?” I risked, because Kurt was not easy, it was not easy, it was not at all obvious. And for once, I wanted to be brave. “I want it so much I could die. I can’t stop thinking about you.”

“I do not want the crumbs,” he repeated, as I leaned towards him.

“Crumbs?” I chuckled. “Kurt ... there is no one like you. You're the pie in the window, that perfect one that everyone wants and no one thinks  can have.” I brushed against his lips. “Can I?”

“What?” I could feel the warmth of his breath and his body close to mine.

“Have you, hold you close to me? I want it all, though, even the crumbs.”

Then I kissed his smile. I thought he was the most beautiful, the tastiest. And I wanted him even more.

*

I fell in love with Kurt slowly, discovering him gradually, with every bite. All the while searching inside myself for a little bit more courage, and romance, and intimacy.

Kurt, on the other hand, was already in love with me, but he had to learn to let himself be savored, and stop fearing us being two instead of one.

It hadn’t been easy, and I think it never will be. But they say that when you really love somebody, you never stop trying.

_The end_

**Author's Note:**

> This work is a translation so if you liked it please go give your love to the real author!  
> Also it's translated from one foreign language to another, so please forgive me if you see any mistakes.


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